


Your Boldness Stands Alone

by sinuous_curve



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, F/M, Genderbend, M/M, Mind Control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-04
Updated: 2010-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 22:43:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinuous_curve/pseuds/sinuous_curve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Without the guidance of an Architect, Eames's dreams invariably take place in either in the grimy back alleys of his youth or in worlds cobbled together from the black and white films he loves so much. For this particular <i>job</i>, he's chosen a version of the cinema fantasy world. And accordingly, he's wearing the face of his favorite blonde ingénue draped in a red dress that clings to her curves. The true genius of dream worlds is the absolute perfection of imitation that's allowed.</i></p><p>Or Eames puts his favorite blonde Forge to good use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Boldness Stands Alone

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Extemporally for the beta!
> 
> This is for the Mind Contol/Amnesia square on my kink_bingo card, with a focus on mind control. Additionally, it also includes some light power play and gender bending. Warning for dub-con overtones.

Without the guidance of an Architect, Eames's dreams invariably take place in either in the grimy back alleys of his youth or in worlds cobbled together from the black and white films he loves so much. There's a reason he's a Forger; the attention to detail that makes his impersonations, his work, so very, very good is impossible to maintain in building an entire city. Of course, the beauty of the mind is that it works even without imagination and Eames, however he uses it, has an undeniable excess of imagination.

For this particular _job_, he's chosen a version of the cinema fantasy world. And accordingly, he's wearing the face of his favorite blonde ingénue draped in a red dress that clings to her curves. The true genius of dream worlds is the absolute perfection of imitation that's allowed. Until he decides otherwise, the breasts straining against the neckline of the dress are absolutely real and tucked between his legs is a thatch of golden hair and a smooth mound of flesh.

He's sitting in the lavish restaurant of a similarly lavish hotel, draped insolently over a chair while the wait staff passes back and forth, carrying bottles of hideously expensive booze and plates of food. The murmur of patrons chatting and laughing is a constant low note at the periphery of his awareness. Projections, of course, but it's always curious to realize how very few of them he can consciously remember ever having met.

Eames traces the tip of his finger around the rim of a wine glass, biding his time. Unlike many others in his profession, he can still dream without the aid of a thin needle in his hand. He doesn't come into such elaborate worlds because he can't get them any other way.

He catches sight of Saito making his way through the tables a moment later, smoothing down the front of his tux in an obvious hurry. Eames smiles slightly, tucking back an errant strand of blonde hair and crossing his legs so the dress slips up to his knee.

"I am so sorry I am late," Saito says, taking his hand and kissing the knuckles of the beautiful blonde.

In some way, this is Eames's favorite part; the moment when he meets the mark and he knows that his Forge is successful. So far as Saito knows, they're married and he's egregiously late to an important anniversary dinner with a woman whose temper is very nearly legendary. Eames can't quite remember whether it's meant to be their wedding anniversary or a birthday, but that little detail is almost irrelevant.

"I should have let you find an empty table," Eames says. He pitches his voice a touch lower than usually would for the blonde, raising an eyebrow and fixing Saito with a stare that promises some kind of retribution.

"And how might I make it up to you?" Saito asks.

He's sincere, like all people who don't know they're dreaming are sincere. His belief in the thick carpet beneath his feet, the expensive flatware laid on the tablecloth, the gleaming crystal of the chandeliers overhead is utterly genuine. But beneath that, in his lovely brown eyes, is a very faint sense that he doesn't know how he got to this restaurant and he's not sure of the of the name of the woman he sees.

Eames's very favorite part, though, is that Saito can't do anything about it. Because this is Eames's dream and he is in control.

Chuckling softly, Eames reaches out and touches a finger to the center of Saito's chest. He's wearing long, white silk gloves that go up past his elbow and the fabric glints beautifully in the light. Saito's breath catches just softly enough that, in other circumstances, Eames wouldn't be entirely sure he heard it. But this is a very special night and he knows.

"To begin with," Eames says, "you could take me upstairs."

In some way, Eames is perfectly aware of how cheaply pornographic the whole scenario could easily become. Class and good taste are such subjective things and the presence of a tuxedo doesn't guarantee the man encased within it is a gentleman. Following Saito through the restaurant, to the bank of elevators on the far side of the lobby, Eames imagines a whole host of far filthier scenarios he could nudge things toward.

But no. Any claim Eames has to knowing the deep inner works of Saito would be specious at best, but the man is, if nothing else, consummately a gentleman. And what he's unknowingly heading towards is plenty depraved enough.

The elevator door closes with a soft chime and Saito presses for the twenty-second floor. Eames leans against the wall as the gears start up with smoothly oiled whirrs. His red dress swirls around his long legs and already he can feel the first kick of heat centered familiar and low in his belly. More alien is the damp between his legs, but Eames has had enough sex without bothering to involve his physical body that the sensation isn't really a shock.

Somewhere after the fifteenth floor, Saito closes the small space between them and slides his hand through Eames's soft blonde curls. Saito pushes into Eames's personal space with his hips, bracing an elbow on the wall slightly to the left of Eames's jaw. "Do you forgive me?" he asks, mouth hovering on skin just beside Easmes's ear.

Eames inhales, long and deliberately slow, pressing his breasts against Saito's chest. He tucks the tips of his fingers in the waistband of Saito's trousers, then turns and brushes their lips together in a light, fleeting kiss that leaves behind the faint impression of bright red lipstick. "I haven't decided yet," he murmurs and the elevator doors slide smoothly open.

He lets Saito lead the way through a short of tangle of hallways. One of the easiest ways to keep people thoroughly entrenched in dream reality is to allow them to take the lead whenever possible. Saito stops in front of 2222 and pulls an old fashioned key from his pocket to unlock the door with. The click of the tumblers is deeply satisfying after a lifetime of keycard beeps and they spill into the room.

Or more accurately, the suite. The accommodations are lush, because Eames doesn't believe in going halfway. His moral code is so often considered suspect; he wouldn't be surprised if those same people found his dedication to keeping sex on a more respectful plane somewhat out of character.

"Do you like it?" Saito asks, removing his jacket and draping it over the back of an armchair.

"It'll do," Eames says, pulling a pin from his hair so the blonde curls tumble down his back and over his shoulders. He turns to Saito, smiling. "Now, about your apology. I think you might begin it by taking off those clothes."

In the real world, Eames highly doubts that Saito would ever react to suggestion or command with as much speed as he does in this dream. But a little known quirk of dreams is just how much more susceptible to suggestion they make one. Of course it's not nearly on the same level as inception, but more in the way that seeing a single glimpse of someone eating a favorite food can cause cravings for a week.

Eames has woven the _suggestion_ of obedience into the fabric of this dream. The success of it is beautiful.

With the same easy precision that Eames sees reflected in everything Saito does, he strips down to skin, folding his clothes neatly on a desk pushed against the wall, with his cufflinks set on top and his shoes pushed underneath. Once he's fully naked, Eames claps his hands in gently mocking approval; Saito smiles wryly at that.

"Now it is your turn," Saito says, folding his arms.

Eames blithely ignores him, taking stock of Saito's body. If you're not aware that you're dreaming, it's very rare that there's appreciable difference between one's physical body and one's mental copy. Saito is trim, with a thatch of dark hair at the base of his half-hard cock. He's a man who pays attention to his physical self, and there's no artifice in spike of attraction that Eames feels along his spine.

He crosses the thick carpet to Saito, stopping with only inches between them. Eames presses his gloved palms against Saito's chest and feels the controlled inhale and exhale of his breath. He smiles, reveling in the power he has in this place to make a man like Saito struggle for control.

"Take my gloves off," Eames says, in the same light tone that sounds like suggestion, but isn't.

Saito's fingers slip between the white silk and Eames's arm and pull the gloves off like the second skin they are. He lets them drop to the floor in little puddles, eyes gone dark and serious. Eames turns against the solid presence of Saito's body, using one hand to lift the weight of his hair off his neck. "Unzip me."

One of Saito's hands curls around Eames's waist and he, where Saito can't see, catches his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment. He has to remember who has the power here, who has the control, or he's going to lose himself in a very alluring fantasy. With his other hand, Saito pulls the zipper on the dress down as far as it will go and it, too, slides down the curves of the woman Eames is to the floor.

"Ah." Saito makes a noise of pleasure and approval, pressing his mouth to Eames's shoulder. "You are so beautiful."

Beneath the dress, Eames wears something black and lacy that cups his breasts and follows the curve of his hips. The silk thigh high stocking were afterthought while he was creating this Forge, but he's glad he thought of it when Saito's hand skims along his hip to touch the band circling his thigh.

Saito's cock presses against the small of Eames's back and he wants, very, very much. "Keep going," Eames commands, flexing his hips back. "I didn't tell you to stop and I haven't accepted your apology yet, love."

Chuckling, low and rough in Eames's ear, Saito undoes the clasp of his bra and tosses it away with more force. Sighing softly at the new weight of his breasts, Eames mentally nudges Saito in the direction he wants and, lo and behold, Saito cups Eames's breasts his hands. His palms are warm and achingly solid as his very adept fingers roll Eames's nipples between thumb and first finger.

For a long moment they stand like that, in an imaginary hotel room in imaginary bodies, as Saito's hands work over Eames's Forged flesh and the only noise is the sound of them breathing together.

"Go lay down on the bed," Eames says suddenly, without the veneer of suggestion. Saito inhales sharply, but his hands fall away and he walks across the room with their eyes locked together.

Curiously, this is the moment when Eames thinks Saito is least likely to realize that none of it is real and that the beautiful blonde woman he sees is a man in a very, very good mask. He won't realize, because he doesn't want to and the rush of power is heady and nearly as intoxicating as the want thrumming beneath Eames's skin.

Saito lays down on top of the blankets with his hands folded beneath his head. He is _such_ a handsome man.

Deliberately, Eames kicks off his heels and peels off the stockings. It's a testament to the time he dedicated to this dream that he remembered to add something as silly as air conditioning and the burst of cooler air on his legs causes a shudder. Saito watches him move with eyes bled dark with want and Eames likes the attention enough to put on a little show.

The panties go next, damp though they are, and once they've been kicked aside, Eames straightens up fully and extends his palms toward Saito. _Look at me_ he thinks and be so fucking awed you get to touch this.

On a whim, Eames runs a hand through his long, pretty hair, tipping his head back to better expose the column of his throat. And with his other hand, he parts the cunt between his legs and eases a single finger up into the tight heat of his borrowed body. That sensation, too, isn't completely new, but it never stops being shocking.

Saito makes a noise of want on the bed and Eames looks up, smiling. "Do you want?" he asks in a voice that, accidentally, is neither entirely the blonde woman's or his.

"Yes," Saito rasps. "Please."

Eames crosses the floor on bare feet and crawls onto the bed, settling across Saito's hips so he can look down at him and wonder how they got to this place. What would it take to find himself in it in the real world, when it didn't take glamour and control of Saito's mind to get there.

But that's a line of thought for another day.

He settles back onto Saito's thighs, and curls one fist around Saito's cock. He's already hard and wet at the tip, but a little bit of worship and torture never hurt anyone. Saito's eyes snap shut at the contact and Eames curls his hands around Saito's balls. "I don't think so, darling, open your eyes for me."

It looks nearly painful for Saito to force his eyes open, but it is so very worth the effort to Eames. He looks as though he's been drugged with the best combination of bliss inducing pharmaceuticals. His fingers dig into the comforter, wrinkling the neatly smoothed surface as the blood leeches from his knuckles.

"You want to fuck me," Eames says. "And you want to see this lipstick smeared around your cock. Which do you want more?"

He keeps his hand working at a pace just slow enough to be torture, but not enough to push past the edge of that so carefully maintained control. Eames is very, very good at this and, God, he enjoys it. He scrapes a fingernail over the bit of skin between cock and balls, savoring the gasped, twisted noise it elicits.

"Of course," Eames continues. "You were late, and I wasn't. So I suppose I'll just take what I want."

He rises up on his knees, pressing the head of Saito's cock to the curls between his legs. (Another so often unsung benefit of dreams is that imaginary fluids don't carry real diseases. No need for condoms.) Saito's shoulders lift off the bed, but he's such a good man and keeps those beautiful eyes open and flicking frantically over every inch of Eames.

"Drink it in," Eames says around a laugh. Saito's gaze lands on his shoulders, then his thighs, then neck, then hands, then breasts, then finally back to Eames's eyes, where he can read the blind, unthinking lust pounding through Saito's body.

Slowly, Eames lowers himself down and pushes Saito in as deep as he'll go.

There's a moment of shared shock; Saito gasping like his lungs have been torn from his body in a moment of bliss and Eames inhaling at the sensation he secretly craves, of being filled in place he doesn't really have. For a protracted moment, it's all that either of them can do, just existing inside each other. And it's intimate in a way completely aside from the times they have been in each others' minds.

Saito gasps something in his mother tongue and God, he can't do that because Eames' control will unravel very quickly if he does.

"I don't know what that means," he says, just lightly moving his hips.

"Please, you must," Saito grits out. "Please."

And, for all that Eames owns every bit of control in this fantasy Saito doesn't realize is happening, that little bit of begging is enough to snap some veneer of casualness. He fucks Saito with all the wild abandon of pent up want, because Eames has learned that fucking has nothing to do with who happens to be penetrating.

He rides the waves of heat that pour into his body until he feels like there's no way, even in dreams, his skin can contain it all. Saito's hands dig bruises hard into his hips, and he realizes belatedly that the rhythm of their bodies slamming together is echoed in the cries that wrench out of both their mouths.

"Fucking touch me," Eames commands then, gritting the strangled words out despite the fact that his mouth and tongue don't seem to want to cooperate. Really, it's possible he meant the words to be a silent little suggestion, but he can't be silent when it feels like there's nothing between him and Saito but the unimportant definition of reality.

Saito's thumb lands against Eames's clit, which ranks as one of his very favorite body parts despite its regrettable absence on his physical form. Even in this moment, where nothing is real but the firing of nerves and synapses, Saito's thumb has some measure of skill and finesse. Eames thinks to himself that this man must be the kind to make his partners fall grateful apart beneath his hands and beg for more.

It builds between them, lust and heat and aching desire that Eames tastes on the back of his tongue and sees in bursts behind his eyelids when he blinks. "Come on, for me," he says, keeping his eyes locked on Saito, despite every inch of himself that's been taught to look away. "Come now, for me."

Saito's thumb twists in a way that pushes Eames over and Eames flexes his hips in way that breaks Saito and suddenly they're both convulsing into each other and falling, falling, falling through a thousand layers of reality and dream made hazy with sex.

Orgams are one of the less conventional kicks.

Eames's eyes fly open as he comes, hurling himself up off the expensive leather chair Saito keeps in his personal office. The strength of his orgasm almost hurts as his body contracts hard, muscles straining around the pleasure and pain it causes. Wildly, he throws his gaze to Saito sprawled on his matching leather couch and feels something tumbling between satisfaction and further lust to see him, too, contorting in the throes of climax.

As the tide slowly begins to recede, Eames can take stock. He's in Tokyo, in Saito's office. It's late and everyone else has gone home, which is why they're here and not in a hotel. (Why they're not in Saito's home is one for the book of monumental trust issues.) They both have matching damp spots on the front of their trousers and flushed casts to their faces.

Saito stares at him, mouth dropped open slightly.

And because Eames has done this before, he has the ability to collect himself in the few moments he's had. He can slide the needle from his hand with a slight wince, run a hand through his hair and fix his gaze on Saito. He can even smirk just a little bit, to prove this all hasn't meant a damned thing. "So," Eames says, voice a touch rough. "Was that everything you wanted?"

Saito closes his mouth and says nothing, looking down at his knees. "I. Yes. Thank you."

The politeness and formality is absurd and somehow touching, all things considered. Saito pulls the needle from his hand and the thin plastic tubes neatly retract into the machinery. Eames leans forward and snaps it all neatly together into the ubiquitous metal suitcase that forever delineates their kind.

He stands and walks to Saito, then leans over and kisses him in a single acknowledgement of everything that he'll never say or ask. Like why Saito was so insistent upon the fact that he didn't want to know it wasn't real. And, of course, Saito's mouth goes pliant beneath his, but that could mean anything.

"You're welcome," Eames says, and walks out.


End file.
